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I blow out a puff of air as my cock hardens, thinking of her legs wrapped around my body last night. The skin on my shoulders stands on end, remembering the curls of her dark hair grazing them while I plunged every inch of my cock into her.
Most women bore me. Their eagerness and desperation to get into my pants is something I quickly learned doesn’t suit me.
But Tatyana is different. When I saw her dancing with another soldier, my pulse kicked into hyper-drive. Tatyana, the little girl who stuck at my side because she realized it kept her safe. My clever littlezaychikis grown and somehow found herself in a den of violent criminals.
I startle at that thought. She’s not mine. But my body responds as if she is. There’s no way in hell I’d allow anyone else to have her. My life is hanging by a thread here, and I damn near lost it last night. I never thought I’d risk so much for a woman, but most don’t have the effect Tatyana has on me.
A long, silver car pulls to the front of the building. The soldier standing guard approaches the driver's door and opens it to let out a man with hair as blond as mine.
Vadim. My half-brother and Pakhan of the Mikhailov Bratva. Throughout the years I’ve lead my crew in America, I’d catch bits of gossip about my half-brother from the Russian criminals my crew worked with. From the sound of it, he’s taken on my father’s personality, but to me, these were only ever tales of a man in a distant country. I never expected to meet Vadim Nikolaev in person.
Puffs of steam lift into the air as the men below trade a brief greeting before Vadim heads inside.
Time to meet the man who decides whether I live or die.
* * *
“Hey! American!”I hear, followed by heavy thumps of a meaty fist against my door. I finish my shower, swing the door open, and find Kalash on the other side.
Hard to forget the nickname of a man with a Kalashnikov rifle tattoo across his chest.
When he steps into the doorway his shoulders brush past the sides. He leans in to avoid hitting the top, but still has some of his dark hair brush past it as he enters.
It’s clear Vadim picks his men carefully: tall, strong, and most importantly, loyal.
Kalash removes the toothpick from the side of his mouth and jerks his head to the side. “They’re ready for you,” he says before replacing the toothpick between his lips.
Given the circumstances, a stranger claiming to be the son of the original post-Soviet-Russia-criminal-turned-oligarch suddenly appearing and potentially threatening the stability of their organization, Kalash was somewhat welcoming to me last night. But In the end, it means nothing. Whether Vadim believes I’m Konstantin Mikhailov’s son or not, if he orders Kalash to kill me there’s no doubt in my mind he’ll do it without hesitation.
I wipe the rest of the shaving cream from my face, towel myself off, and throw my clothes on. When I reach Kalash, I assume he’ll turn and head out the door, but he raises a hand for me to wait.
“Something I’ve always wondered,” Kalash says as the toothpick in the side of his mouth makes jagged little circles. He stands squarely in front of me, his shoulders rising a bit above mine.
Coming across someone taller than me doesn’t happen very often.
He eyes me for a moment before continuing, pausing at the edges of the tattoo peeking out of the top of my shirt before looking up at me.
“Why do you Americans smile so fucking much?” he asks.
I cock my head to the side in surprise. “Isn’t life kind of a joke sometimes?”
He considers my answer as I walk past him and head out the door. We proceed down a series of long, bland corridors, turning and walking more until we arrive at the elevator shaft and step inside. Kalash hits the button for the ground floor, and we wait in silence. When we make it to the front door, we’re immediately greeted with a blistering wind so strong it slams the door shut. Kalash raises his boot and smashes his foot against the frosted handle, sending the door flying open for us to walk outside.
Fucking hell. The States have their cold areas, but not this damn cold. I close my coat and stuff my hands in my pockets, thankful the next building isn’t that far away.
If life had taken just a few different turns, Kalash and I could have been walking together as allies, with me at the helm of the Mikhailov Bratva. But that’s not how life unfolded. Yesterday he was my friend, ambivalent over the idea of possibly being ordered to kill me. Today he’s my escort, walking me over to meet Vadim.
I learned at a young age, relationships can change very quickly.
We reach the next building where the other soldiers are gathered. I pull my hands out of my pockets and blow warm air over them as Kalash removes his glove. Christ, even his fingers have bulging muscles. He uses the naked tips of his fingers to punch in a code that opens the door. Warm air greets us as we walk inside and I feel a burn on my skin as my body adjusts to the change in the environment.
This building is far better appointed than the one they sent me to. There’s a large area rug to keep the floor warm and modern, cleanly styled furniture. Enormous canvases are bolted into the walls of the foyer. Straight beams of wrought-iron replace the plain banisters still present in the other building. Some walls were knocked out, opening up to an expansive foyer, with a dining room, a bar, and halls on opposite sides. Overall, it looks like a gigantic bachelor pad decorated by someone with taste and an endless supply of money.
Kalash and I turn down a hall that appears to be fully replaced by glass. We pass along a row of offices, likely designed for the more white-collar brand of soldiers so they can work on laundering money, bribing politicians, and ordering hits on rivals from the comfort of a leather office chair.
The headquarters feels like entering the eye of a storm. Beauty, quiet, even some wild parties, surrounded by a flurry of violent atrocities committed in the outside world to fund the existence of this place.
I nod in silent approval. Vadim has done well for himself.
